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THE FIRST CHAPTER.

The Message On The Dart!

TAP! Herbert Vernon-Smith, the Bounder of Greyfriars, gave a little start, and glanced round. He was startled. It was a cold and frosty morning at Greyfriars School. Any minute now the bell was due to ring for class. But if the clang of the bell reached Smithy’s ears, he was not going into the Form-room with the rest of the Remove. None of the Remove had seen Smithy that morning, and he had seen none of them. Smithy was locked in the punishment-room, high up in a remote corner of the ancient pile of Greyfriars. When Smithy left that silent and remote apartment, it would not be to go into the Form-room. It would be to walk to the Head’s study, in charge of his Form-master, Mr. Quelch, there to hear his sentence of expulsion from the school. It was for that that the Bounder of Greyfriars was waiting. Trotter, the page, had brought him his breakfast in the punishment-room. Then the door had been locked on him again. Since then, he had been alone—pacing and pacing to and fro in the narrow confines of punny, the blackest of black scowls on his face. His thoughts were black and bitter enough. But that sudden and unexpected tap roused him from his dark and bitter reflections. It came from the window. A tap at the door would have surprised him. All the Remove knew that he was locked up in punny, waiting for the sack. But he did not expect any fellow to make an attempt to speak to him there. It was difficult, almost impossible, for any fellow to reach the punishment-room unseen to speak a word to him through the door. Neither did he expect any fellow to want to do so, unless it was his chum, Tom Redwing. Redwing, perhaps, would have given him a word, before he went, had it been possible. But he had not come—if he had thought of it he had not found it possible. But if a tap at the door would have surprised him, a tap at the window was amazing! That window was high up, and overlooked a blank wall. A cat could not have climbed to it. Smithy stared at the little window. It was barred inside. So thick was the ancient wall that the window could not be reached by an arm stretched through the bars. Nothing was to be seen but a patch of steely wintry sky at the window, Tap! The startling sound came again as he stared. Something—he could not see what—had struck the glass on the outside, and fallen, too swiftly for him to discern what it was. “Reddy!” muttered the Bounder. Someone outside and far below had tossed something up to the window that had tapped on the glass. Obviously it was done to draw his attention; and he could guess that it was Tom Redwing who was below. No other fellow in the Remove, he reflected bitterly, was likely to be wasting a thought on him. He stepped to the little window, as close to the bars as he could press. But it was impossible to see anything below. All that he could see was a patch of sky and the kitchen gardens in the distance. No one near the building could possibly come within range of his vision. Tap! Crack! There were four panes in the little window. One of them cracked across at a harder tap from without. A fragment of broken glass fell and tinkled within. “By gum!” breathed Vernon-Smith, his eyes gleaming. He saw now what had struck the glass, catching a glimpse of it as it fell. It was a dart. The fellow below was whizzing darts at the window with a sure hand. It was not easy to hit such a target at such a height. But it was possible to a skilful dart-thrower. Smithy could not doubt now that it was Redwing. He had a dart-board in his study in the Remove, which Tom Redwing shared. Evidently Tom wanted to communicate with him, and had thought of the darts as a method. Tap! Crack! The cracked pane fell in under another knock, and this time the dart dropped just inside, falling amid a shower of glass splinters. The winter wind blew in through the opening. And, a few moments later, a dart flew in, passing through the orifice in the broken pane, and dropping within easy reach of the Bounder stretching his arm through the bars. “By gum!” repeated Smithy. Round the shaft of the last dart was a paper, tightly tied on with thin twine. Smithy did not need telling what it was. It was a note from his unseen chum below. Had Redwing shouted to him, his voice would have reached other cars sooner than Smithy’s. But the flying dart had brought in the message— whatever it was! Eagerly, the Bounder reached through the bars and grasped it. He could not imagine what his chum had to tell him, unless it was just a message of sympathy in his sore strait. There was no hope or help for the junior in the punishment-room; his chum could not help him. But a friendly word was something. The Bounder cut the twine with his penknife and unrolled the paper from the dart. He read it eagerly.

It was written in Tom Redwing’s hand. And what was written there caused the Bounder to catch his breath, and made his heart beat with at least a faint hope. “Smithy, old man, if you never did it, and I believe you never did, there’s a chance. I’ve telegraphed to your father. From what 1 hear, they’re going to send you home, while we’re in class, with a prefect in charge, with a letter to your father. But, if you can stick it out somehow, till your father gets here, there may be a chance. He’s got my telegram before this, and you can bet he will come at once. It may help you if you can stick it out somehow so that you won’t be sent away before Mr. Vernon-Smith reaches Greyfriars. “TOM REDWING.” The Bounders eyes danced. Again and again he had thought of his father as he paced and paced restlessly in the punishment-room, His father was not to know that he had been expelled until he reached home in charge of a prefect. What was done could not and would not be undone. But if his father came in time—before the sentence was pronounced—before the gates of Greyfriars closed on him— What seemed certain beyond doubt to his Form-master and headmaster would not seem so certain to his father. His father would take his word. He would leave no stone unturned to get justice for his son. It was Smithy’s one and only chance; and again and again he had thought of it; hopelessly, for he could send no message. Tom Redwing had thought of it, too—and done it “Oh, what a pal!” breathed the Bounder. If he still had a chance, this was it! His father, when he got that telegram, would come as fast as a fast car could carry him. Smithy knew that. If he was still in the school, he might pull through—if only he was still at Greyfriars when Samuel Vernon-Smith arrived. Somehow, anyhow, he had to

prevent them from sending him away before his father came !” He took a pencil from his pocket, and scribbled on the back of the paper.

“Thanks, old man! You bet I’ll stick it out till the pater blows in!”

He tied the paper on the dart again, snapped the head from the dart in case it should drop on the waiting head below, and tossed it from the broken pane. Redwing had his answer. Redwing had done all he could, and the rest was up to the Bounder. As soon as the bell had rung for class, they would come for him. But it would be two hours, at least, before Mr. Vernon Smith could reach the school. Somehow, anyhow, he was going to stick it out—and, with gleaming eyes, the imprisoned Bounder began to consider ways and means.

—

THE SECOND CHAPTER.

The Punched Prefect!

“Oh what a surprise! Two lovely black eyes!”

SKINNER of the Remove chanted that ancient refrain. But he was careful not to let it reach the ears of Gerald Loder of the Sixth Form. Loder of the Sixth—as the happy possessor of “two lovely black eyes”— would not have been pleased. Some of the Remove fellows grinned. But most of them were looking serious. A Remove man was to be expelled that morning on account of those two lovely black eyes, which was by no means a grinning matter. The bell was ringing for class, and the Remove fellows heading for the House, when Loder was seen at his study window. Loder was scowling out into the bright frosty morning—his scowl all the blacker on account of those black eyes. Fellows, naturally, looked at him when he was noticed there. Black eyes were very uncommon at Greyfriars School. Sometimes one might be bagged by accident, but a single black eye was rare! Two together were almost, if not quite, unknown. Loder had two—and each of them was, as Bob Cherry remarked, a real corker! Both eyes were absolutely black. There was a red swelling on the nose also! Obviously, Loder had stopped a most terrific jolt with his face. Whoever had hit Gerald Loder had, so to speak, gone all out! Only a few fellows had glimpsed Loder that morning, so far. Now quite a number saw him—and they saw him with interest. “I say, you fellows, Smithy must have punched Loder jolly hard!” grinned Billy Bunter. “Both eyes black—and his nose red—and he’s looking fearfully blue!” “Penny plain, twopence coloured!” remarked Skinner. “He, he, he!” “‘Tain’t a laughing matter for Loder!” remarked Lord Mauleverer mildly. “Nor for poor old Smithy!” said Skinner. “Still, Smithy will be distinguished as the only fellow who was ever bunked for giving a prefect two black eyes.” Harry Wharton, the captain of the Remove, fixed his eyes very curiously on the face at the window. Bov Cherry, Johnny Bull, Frank Nugent, and

Hurree Singh, regarded Loder of the Sixth with equal curiosity. The Famous Five did not doubt, any more than the other fellows, that Smithy had knocked out Loder in the dark the night before—a feat for which he was going to be sacked. But now that they saw Loder, they wondered. Redwing had told them, and believed, or tried hard to believe, that he was sure Smithy hadn’t done it. He declared that no junior schoolboy could have dealt so terrific a blow. Now the Famous Five could not help wondering whether, by some possibility, Redwing might be right. For the force that must have gone into the knock was, at least very uncommon in a Lower Fourth arm. “By gum!” said Bob Cherry. “If Smithy did that he’s got a punch I’d rather not sample.” “The punchfulness must have been truly terrific!” remarked Hurree Jamset Ram Singh. Harry Wharton nodded thoughtfully. “From what Quelch said, when he hooked Smithy out of the dormitory, he found Loder knocked out and unconscious.” he said. “He was unconscious for some minutes, at least! Could Smithy—” “Must be a stout lad, if he did!” said Bob. “Of course, he was pretty desperate, Loder catching him in the Head’s study in the middle of the night!” said Frank Nugent slowly. “But—” “Nobody was there, except Loder and Smithy!” said Johnny Bull. “At least, nobody was seen—” “Well, Loder couldn’t see in the dark.” said Harry. “He never saw Smithy, if you come to that. They got Smithy because he was gone down from the dorm at the time. I—I wonder if there’s a spot of chance that somebody else was up —” “Who?” asked Johnny. “Nobody but Smithy would be larking in the Head’s study—and we all know he’d sneaked the key of the study. Nobody could have got into it except Smithy.” “Yes, that does seem to settle it!” agreed Harry. “Redwing thinks that only a senior—and a hefty one at that— could have knocked Loder out with a single jolt!” But no senior could have been there. Why should he?” “Must have been Smithy! He was fearfully startled when Loder grabbed him in the dark, and hit out without thinking—and put all his beef into it.” “Blessed if I feel sure “ said Bob Cherry. “I’ve always fancied that I had a bigger jolt than Smithy—but I couldn’t knock out a Sixth Form man with one punch, I know that.” Loder of the Sixth, scowling from that study, caught sight of the gazing juniors, and scowled more blackly, and turned from the window. Evidently he did not like those black eyes meeting the general view. He was, in point of fact, a shocking sight. There was, in the Remove, a good deal of sympathy for Smithy; natural in the ease of a fellow who was up for the sack. But after seeing Loder, the juniors had to admit that a fellow who had done that damage, was no fellow to be allowed to remain at Greyfriars School. Loder of the Sixth was a good deal of a bully, and generally unpopular, but no human face ought ever to have been hit in that sledge-hammer style. The Remove gathered at the door of their Form-room with one exception. When Mr. Quelch arrived to let his Form in, Tom Redwing was not yet there. The Remove went in, minus Redwing. Mr. Quelch’s eyes glinted, and his brows wrinkled in a deep frown. Already, that morning, Redwing had angered him—Quelch had caught him in his study, just after he had telephoned a telegram to Smithy’s father. Now he was late for class, and the Remove master suspected at once that he was seeking to communicate in some way with the prisoner of the punishment-room. Quelch could feel for the boy’s distress at the disaster that had overtaken his chum, but discipline was discipline. “Wharton!” He addressed his head boy. “Do you know where Redwing is?” “No, sir!” answered Harry. “He was in the quad ten minutes ago; I haven’t seen him since.” “He went up to the studies, sir!” said Peter Todd. “Oh!” Mr. Quelch’s brow cleared. If Redwing had gone to the Remove studies, he had not gone in the direction of the upper corridor leading to the punishment-room. “Are you sure of that, Todd ?” “Yes, sir; I passed him on the Remove landing.” “Very well!” said Mr. Quelch; though he certainly would not have said that it was very well had he been aware that Redwing had gone up to the Remove studies to get a bundle of darts from Study No. 4 for his own purposes. There was a patter of hurried feet in the passage. Tom Redwing, flushed and breathless with running, arrived at the door of the Form-room and came panting in. He was three minutes late. Unpunctuality to the extent of one minute was enough, as a rule, to draw forth the vials of Quelch’s wrath. But on this occasion Quelch only signed to the latecomer to go to his place—little guessing whence he had just come. Glad not to be questioned, Redwing went to his place. Mr. Quelch proceeded to set a Latin passage for translation by his Form. All the juniors knew that he would not be with them for that lesson. It was no secret that the Bounder was to be dealt with while the school were all in Form, and sent away from Greyfriars before they came out in break. The affair had made sensation enough already, and there was to be no more, if the Head could help it. “Wharton!” “Yes, sir!” “I shall now leave you in charge here.” said Mr. Quelch. “I have other matters to attend to for a time.” “Yes, sir.” Mr. Quelch left the Form-room, leaving the Remove to get busy with Latin translation under the care of his head boy. Not a man in the Remove, however, gave a single spot of attention to Latin translation. Excitement was too keen on the subject of the coming expulsion. “I say, you fellows, it’s rather rotten, ain’t it?” squeaked Billy Bunter, when the door closed on Quelch. “Terrifically rotten for poor old Smithy!” said Hurree Jamset Ram Singh. “Eh? I don’t mean that! I mean, sneaking a fellow out of the school while we’re in class, in this syrupstitious way !” said the fat Owl. “I’d much rather have an expulsion in Hall, in the old-fashioned way, you know! It’s a lot more exciting! Besides, we should get out of class for jolly nearly half an hour.” “You fat villain!” said Peter Todd. “Oh, really, Toddy——” “You podgy piffler——” said Bob Cherry. “Oh, really, Cherry—” “Shut up, you frabjous frog!” hooted Johnny Bull. “Well, that’s what I think!” declared Bunter. “Doing it like this is really syrupstitious. Much better have it in Hall, with the whole school, you know, and the head saying—yarooooooh!” A Latin grammer, catching Billy Bunter on his fat chin, cut short his views on the subject of Smithy’s expulsion quite suddenly! Bunter roared. “Beast! Who chucked that book at me?” yelled Bunter. “I did,” answered Bob cheerily, “and if you want the inkpot after it, you’ve only got to go on wagging your fat chin!” Billy Bunter did not go on wagging his fat chin! He rubbed it, instead.

THE THIRD CHAPTER.

No Admittance!

MR. QUELCH rustled up the corridor, with a long key in his hand. He inserted that key in the door of the punishment-room. Dr. Locke was waiting in his study. Loder of the Sixth was with him. Mr. Quelch, as the Form-master concerned, had to take the culprit to the Head for judgment and sentence. He had come to do it. There was no doubt, of course, about the judgment, or the sentence. It was not a matter for inquiry. Vernon-Smith’s guilt was, or was supposed to be, perfectly clear and undeniable. If he was, us he had declared, innocent of the attack on Loder in the dark, his own headstrong proceedings had been his undoing; every known action of the Bounder’s pointed to his guilt. No one supposed for a moment that he was innocent. Even Redwing realised that his belief in the Bounders innocence was against all the facts, and even against common sense; and, indeed, chiefly due to his distress at the idea of Smithy’s being kicked out of Greyfriars in disgrace. Mr. Quelch, certainly, had not the remotest idea on the subject. He was only anxious to get this painful matter over. Many times he had had doubts whether a reckless, headstrong, self-willed fellow like the Bounder, always in som trouble or other, ought to remain at the school. Now the matter was settled, and he was going. And the sooner he was gone, and forgotten, the better in the Remove master’s opinion. He turned the key back in the lock, and pushed. To his surprise, the door of the punishment-room did not open.

With an annoyed grunt, he pushed again, and yet again. Still the heavy door remained fast. Quelch’s eyes glinted. It was in keeping with the character of the rebel of his Form if he was, in his last hour at Greyfriars, adding to his sins by giving unnecessary and irritating trouble. The Bounder, if he was going, was the fellow to go with his ears up, defiant to the last. “Vernon-Smith!” rappd Mr. Quelch. “Yes, sir!” came the Bounder s cool voice, through the oak. “Are you holding the door shut?” “No, sir!” “Have you placed your foot against it?” “No, sir!” “Then why does it not open?” snapped Mr. Quelch. “Take the door-handle, Vernon-Smith, and pull, while I push; it must somehow be jammed.” “Yes I think it’s jammed, sir!” answered the Bounder, from within. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be any use pulling the door-handle, sir, while there’s the back of a chair jammed under it.” “Wha-a-t?” Quelch’s eyes, which had been glinting, now fairly blazed. “Vernon-Smith, if you have placed a chair-back under the door-handle, remove it at once!” No answer. “Do you hear me, Vernon-Smith?” thundered Mr. Quelch. “I’m not deaf, sir.” “Deaf!” “Upon my word! Vernon-Smith, I’m in here to take you to your headmaster, to hear your sentence from Dr. Locke! Admit me instantly.” “Are you in a hurry to get it over?” “What—what? Yes, certainly.” “I’m not, sir!” explained the Bounder coolly. “I’d rather leave it till a bit later in the morning, if it’s all the same to you.” “I order you to unfasten this door at once, Vernon-Smith! This impertinence will serve no purpose.” The Bounder did not answer that. He hoped, at least, that that “impertinence” would serve some purpose. He was not going to leave, if he could help it, till his father had had time to reach the school. Outside the door Mr. Quelch breathed wrath. Fellows had, on rare occasions, been locked in the punishment-room before. Certainly, it had never occurred to any such fellow to secure the door inside and keep out a beak who came for him! Unless it was sheer insolence, a desire to make himself as troublesome as possible before he was turfed out, Quelch could not understand it. As Smithy evidently did not intend to open the door, the Remove master put his shoulder to it, and shoved with all his strength. There was a creak from the chair jammed under the door-handle. It shifted a trifle. Then it stood firm again as the Bounder grasped it, and held it in place. He jammed it tight, and held it fast. Mr. Quelch shoved, and shoved, and shoved. But the door did not stir. He desisted at last, panting for breath. “Vernon-Smith!” he gasped. “Yes, sir!” The voice from within was respectful, though there was faint inflection of mockery in it. You insolent young scoundrel, what is the purpose of this?” exclaimed Mr. Quelch, “Your headmaster is waiting for you.” “I am sorry to keep Dr. Locke waiting, sir! If you will come back at about eleven, I will open the door.” “You will have left Greyfriars long before that, Vernon-Smith! It is the headmaster’s intention to send you away at once.” snapped Mr. Quelch. “No doubt you would like to create a scene before you go! You will not be allowed to do so. You will leave while the other boys are in the Forrn-rooms” No answer. “Will you open this door immediately?” Silence. The Remove master stood breathing hard. Seldom had he been so intensely angry. But he could not force the door open. That door was immovable. Nothing short of a crowbar, inserted between door and jamb, would have forced that door open, so long as the Bounder held the chair firmly in position within. “Upon my word!” said Mr. Quelch, at length. “Vernon-Smith, if you refuse to release this door, I shall have no resource but to report your conduct to Dr. Locke. Do you desire to be flogged before you are sent away?” Grim silence from the punishment room. “Do you hear me, Vernon-Smith?” Mr. Quelch fairly barked. “Open this door immediately!” Silence. Mr. Quelch turned from the door at last, and went. He could not get in, and, without getting in, he could not, obviously, take Herbert Vernon-Smith to the headmaster. And the Head was waiting. He hurried down the long corridor and the stairs, and made his way to Dr. Locke’s study. In that study Dr. Locke was waiting; and Loder of the Sixth, with his bruised nose and black eyes, was waiting. Both of them looked at Mr. Quelch as he arrived with a flushed face— alone! “Where is the boy, Mr. Quelch?” asked Dr. Locke, raising his eyebrows. “Why have you not brought Vernon-Smith here?” “I am sorry to say, sir, that the boy has secured the door of the punishment-room on the inside, and refuses to admit me !” gasped Mr. Quelch. “Bless my soul!” ejaculated Dr. Locke. “Is it possible?” Loder stood, blinking with his black, swollen eyes. Loder was waiting, with grim and bitter anticipation, to see the fellow who had blacked his eyes sacked. But he had to wait! “I scarcely understand this, Mr. Quelch!” said the Head. “What can the boy’s object be in thus adding to the trouble he has already caused” “Only a desire, sir, to add to trouble!” said the Remove master, compressing his lips. “That, I fear, is the nature of that boy.” The door must be forced, then, and at once!” said Dr. Locke. “You had better call Gosling, and direct him to bring whatever implements may be needed, and lose no time. This disagreeable matter must be finished without delay.” “Very well, sir.” Mr. Quelch left the Head’s study, and proceeded to call in Gosling, the ancient porter of Greyfriars. And the prisoner of the punishment-room, who so inexplicably seemed to desire to remain a prisoner there, was not long in hearing footsteps approach the door once more.

THE FOURTH CHAPTER.

Smithy Holds The Fort!

HERBERT VERNON-SMITH stood in the punishment-room, a sardonic grin on his face, listening to the footsteps that came up the corridor. Defiance of authority was rather in the Bounder’s nature; it was that, in fact, that had led to his disaster. Guilty or innocent, he would not have been in trouble now had he not left his dormitory, after lights out, to carry on his feud with Loder of the Sixth. And, precarious as his position now was, there was something enjoyable to the reckless Bounder in this last contest with the beaks—in whatever way it might end. The door-handle turned, and the door was pushed. Smithy gripped the chair again, to wedge it fast. “Vernon-Smith!" came Mr. Quelch’s voice, almost trembling with anger. “If you do not open this door immediately, it will be forced. Gosling is here with me to force it” “Go ahead!" said Smithy. “I warn you, Vernon-Smith, that you may be flogged for this insolence, before you are sent away.” “So it’s settled that I’m to be sent away?" jeered the Bounder. “No idea of giving a fellow a chance. I’ve told you that I never touched Loder I’d have liked to give the bullying cad a black eye or two, but I never thought of doing it. I’m no such fool!" “If you have anything to say, Vernon-Smith, you may say it to your headmaster!” snapped Mr. Quelch contemptuously. “Think he will believe me?" “Dr. Locke will certainly not believe palpable falsehoods, any more than I do, Vernon-Smith.” “And you’re not going to make any inquiry?“ “There is nothing into which to inquire, as you are well aware.” “Oh, yes there is!" retorted the Bounder. “You can inquire who was up last night as well as me, and find out who punched Loder in his silly face.” “It was ascertained at the time, Vernon-Smith, that no other boy in the school was out of his dormitory.” “If that’s correct, it must have been a Sixth Form man, then.” said Vernon-Smith. “Better look in the Sixth.” “I will not bandy words with you. Will you, for the last time, open this door before it is forced? " “No, I won’t!" “Gosling!" “Yessir!" came a grunt. “Force that door immediately is! Lose no time, Gosling! The head-master is waiting for Vernon-Smith to be taken to him.” “Yessir!" The Bounder set his teeth. He had gained, so far, about a quarter of an hour. He had to gain two hours, if he was to have his chance. Somehow, by hook or by crook, he was going to do it. At all events, he was not going to give in, so long as he had a kick left. Bang! Clang! Bang! CIang! came from without. Gosling had a crowbar and a hammer. He was driving the pointed end of the crowbar between door and the jamb, with heavy smites of the hammer. Some damage was being done to both door and jamb. That could not be helped. The Bounder could do nothing to stop that. He could only wait, knowing that when the crowbar was driven in, a powerful wrench on it would he too strong for the chair packed under the door-handle. Bang! Clang! Bang! Distant as the punishment-room was from the Form-rooms, that banging and clanging sounded and echoed over Greyfriars, and reached the ears of the fellows in class. Tom Redwing, in the Remove-room, at least, could guess what it meant. They had not got Smithy yet. Bang! Bang! Bang! Clang! The Bounder, breathing hard, waited and watched. The door creaked; the chair back creaked. The smites of the hammer drove the crowbar farther and farther in till Vernon-Smith could see the point between door and jamb. Inch by inch it came farther, forcing open the door to the width of the thickness of the bar. “Now, Gosling!" came Mr. Quelch’s voice. The Remove master was waiting with intensifying impatience. “Yessir!" Gosling threw down the hammer, grasped the crowbar with both horny hands and threw his weight on it, to wrench the door open. Inch by inch the door yielded, forcing the jammed chair back along the floor under the pressure. With every inch that the door yielded, the “purchase” naturally diminished; but by the time the bar was of no further avail, there was a space wide enough for Gosling to jam a boot in. He jammed in a boot, laying aside the crowbar. “Very good, Gosling.” said Mr. Quelch approvingly, “Very good, indeed! Now pass your hand round the door, Gosling, and remove the chair from under the handle."“Yessir!" A large and horny hand was thrust through the aperture, followed by a wrist, and a forearm. Gosling got a grip on the chair. At the same moment, Herbert Vernon-Smith picked up the poker and gave Gosling a rap on his knuckles. “Yarooop!" The yell that came from William Gosling as he got the rap on his knuckles, rang farther and louder than the banging of his hammer. It fairly thundered. “Yoo-hoo-hooop!" roared Gosling. That hand disappeared as if by magic. Gosling, evidently, did not want another rap on the knuckles. Instantly the Bounder jammed the door shut again, and jammed the chair-back tight under the handle. The door was as fast as before. Outside, Gosling was howling wildly. Inside, the Bounder was grinning. Mr. Quelch’s voice came in high, angry tones. “Gosling—” “Wooo-hooop!” roared Gosling. “What does this mean, Gosling?” “Yow-ow-woooop!” “You have allowed the boy to close the door again!” “Ow! Wow! Ooogh! Think I’m going to ‘ave my knuckles rapped?” roared the exasperated Gosling. “Wow! Ooooch!” “The door must be opened!” “Wooooh!” yelled Gosling, “P’r’aps you’d like to have your knuckles rapped, sir?” “Do not be impertinent, Gosling!” hooted Mr. Quelch. “ You have foolishly allowed the boy to close the door again !” “Oooch!” “The whole work must be done over again!” exclaimed Mr. Quelch, in great annoyance. “Take the crowbar, Gosling! Take the hammer. And this time, when you are able to reach in and remove the chair, take care that you do so.” “Wot!” “You are wasting my time, and the headmaster’s time! Proceed at once, Gosling, and—” “My heye! You think I’m going to put my ‘and in at that there door agin, and get me knuckles rapped! Wot I says is this ‘ere—I ain’t! No, sir! That I ain’t!” “Gosling—” “Which it ain’t my dooty to stick my arm in at that there door!” roared Gosling. “And wot I says is this ‘ere, don’t you think it!” “Gosling, you are not to go away! I forbid you to go away! If you go away, I shall report your conduct to Dr. Locke! Gosling, come back immediately!” Mr. Quelch’s voice rose to a roar. “Gosling! Do you hear me, Gosling?” The Bounder chuckled. If Gosling heard, as doubtless he did, he understudied the ancient Gladiator, and heeded not. He tramped away down the corridor, heedless of the Remove master’s voice, and disappeared down the stairs. Gosling, it appeared, had had enough, and did not want any more. Gosling was gone! “Upon my word!” the Bounder heard Mr. Quelch exclaim, in tones of intense vexation. “Impertinent—absurd! Upon my word!” There was a sharp rap on the door. “Vernon-Smith!” “Yes, sir.” “Will you open this door?” “No, sir!” There was a pause, and then the Bounder heard his Form-master rustle away. Quelch did not seem disposed, personally, to handle hammer and crowbar, neither, probably, was he keen on getting his knuckles rapped with a poker. He was gone—doubtless to plan new measures for getting at the prisoner of the punishment-room; and the Bounder of Greyfriars was still holding the fort.

THE FIFTH CHAPTER.

Up The Chimney!

CRASH, crash! Thud! Bang! Crash! Greyfriars fellows, in the Form-rooms, stared and listened. Form-masters found it hard to keep attention on matters in hand. The Remove-room was in a buzz of excitement. It was known now that the uproar came from the direction of the punishment-room. The Bounder was up to something—kicking up a final shindy, apparently, before he went. As there was no master present with the Remove, the Form-room door was opened so that the juniors could hear better. In the other Form-rooms the fellows had no such luck. But Hacker, Capper, Wiggins, and Twigg carried on under great dificulties, with the Shell, the Fourth, the Third, and the Second. Even in the Fifth, a senior Form, there was a buzz of excitement that Mr. Prout could not suppress. Even in the Sixth, where Mr. Lascelles was imparting mathematical knowledge, Sixth Form men started and stared. And the Head, in his study, still waiting for the culprit to be brought before his judgment seat listened with the deepest of deep feelings. And Gera1d Loder caressed his black eyes, and found comfort in the reflection that that young rascal, Vernon-Smith, was making things all the worse for himself. Bang! Crash! Thud! Crash! It roared and reverberated all over Greyfriars. Everybody knew by this time that the Bounder had fortified himself in the punishment-room, and refused to come out and be sacked. It was fearfully thrilling! Only Tom Redwing knew Smithy’s motive. To the rest of the Remove, it was simply a case of the Bounder kicking up a last tremendous shindy while he was still at Greyfriars to kick it up. And the Remove fellows, with a breathless chuckles, agreed that it was just like the old Bounder! Bang! Crash! Bang! In the punishment-room, Herbert Vernon Smith’s face was grim!” He had held the fort, so far; he was going on holding it, if he could. He had gained about an hour out of the two he wanted. All this time he had no doubt Mr. Samuel Vernon-Smith, the millionaire financier, was on his way to Greyfriars—probably breaking speed limits right and left. He was sure that his father would come; he knew that he would come after getting Redwing’s telegram. But, he had to give him time to come. And now the door was yielding fast! Quelch was not the man to be defied or defeated. Milder measures having failed, Quelch had resorted to heroic measures. They were not trying to force the door open with a crowbar now. They were smashing it open. Gosling had been rounded up again. Trotter had been called in to his aid. Taking it in turns, they delivered hefty smites from axes on the wood round the lock. Crash—crash—crash! The din was terrific. It woke every echo within the school walls, and a good many without. It was intensely annoying and exasperating to Mr. Quelch. He stood looking on, with a grim brow and glinting eyes. But annoying and exasperating as it was, it had to be done if Vernon-Smith was to be dealt with. And the door was going! Crash, crash! The Bounder knew that the game was up, so far as holding the fort in the punishment room was concerned. But he was not beaten yet. In few minutes more the dismantled lock would be dropping from the hacked and battered door; the chair-back would no longer hold. The door would fly open, and hands would be upon him—if he was there! There was no retreat by way of the barred window. But the Bounder was not caught yet. He had stamped out the fire in the old grate under the vast, old-fashioned chimney to keep open a line of retreat, if it came to that. It was a line of retreat that few fellows would have fancied. Smith certainly did not fancy it but he was going to make use of it, all the same. Crash, crash, crash! CRASH! With a final terrific crash the lock went, falling from the door over the chair within. There was nothing to hold the chair back now. The door, pushed from without, flew open. Mr. Quelch, with set lips, strode in. Gosling and Trotter, resting after their labours, gasped and panted. “Now—” said Mr. Quelch grimly. He broke off. He had strode in to grasp the prisoner of the punishment-room by the collar and march him off forcibly to his headmaster’s presence. But where was the prisoner? Mr. Quelch could scarcely believe his eyes as he stared round the room and found himself alone in it. “Vernon-Smith!” he gasped. He stared and blinked. Obviously Vernon-Smith was not under the table, or under the bed. Still, he stooped and looked to make assurance doubly sure. Then, suddenly comprehending, he stepped to the fireplace. The fire had long been out and was cold. Over the dead embers lay a pile of soot, recently fallen, from within the chimney. Evidently it had been dislodged by a climber within those ancient and sooty recesses. “Is—is—is it possible?” gasped Mr. Quelch. He stooped his head, put it under the huge old chimney, and stared up. He could not see the patch of sky that should have been visible at the summit of the chimney-pot. The way was blocked! Only too plainly it was blocked by the Bounder of Greyfriars! “Vernon-Smith!” shrieked Mr. Quelch. “Hallo!” came back a voice, muffled by the chimney. “You—you—you are there? Descend at once—at once! Do you hear? I order you to descend at once!” thundered Mr. Quelch, glaring up. The Bounder did not descend. He ascended. But something else descended, dislodged by his foot. It was a large chunk of soot! It landed fairly in the midst of Mr. Quelch’s scholastic features as he glared up.

Mr. Quelch had not expected that. Really, he might have, if he had been a little less angry and excited. But he hadn’t, and it took him quite by surprise. Ho gave a horrible gurgle and withdrew his head from the chimney. “Gurrrrgggh!” Gosling and Trotter stared in at the doorway as Mr. Quelch turned away from the chimney, black as the ace of spades, and spluttering soot. “My heye!” ejaculated Gosling. Trotter giggled. It was disrespectful, but really Trotter could not help it. He had never seen a Form-master looking like a nigger minstrel before, “Urrrggh!” gurgled Mr. Quelch. “Wurrgh! Oh! Googh! That young rascal—ooogh!” He clawed and dabbed at soot. “Woooh! Upon my— groogh—word— Gooogh!” More soot fell from the chimney as the Bounder clambered up. Mr. Quelch did not look up again. He had had enough soot. Breathing wrath—and soot—the Remove master tottered from the room. Gosling and Trotter were left grinning. For the next half-hour Mr. Quelch was busy. But he was not, for the present, bothering about that young rascal, Herbert Vernon-Smith. He was busy cleaning off soot. Quelch’s pressing need at the moment was hot water and soap—lots of hot water and lots of soap—and that young rascal had to be left to his own devices.

THE SIXTH CHAPTER.

Watching For Pa!

“I SAY, you fellows,” squeaked Billy Bunter, “it’s him!T The Greyfriars fellows had come out in break Most of them, especially the Remove, were wondering what had happened to the Bounder. Mr. Quelch had not returned to his Form-room. His head boy had had to carry on there till the bell rang for break. The amount of work that had been done in the Remove-room would have needed a microscope to spot it. The juniors were far too excited to worry about that. Where was Smithy? Had he gone? Was he going? And Redwing wondered whether Mr. Vernon-Smith was coming. If the millionaire had started immediately on receipt of the telegram from the school, he might blow in at any minute now. “It’s him!” repeated Bunter, pointing with a fat finger. “Smithy?” “Eh? No. Look!” In the gateway stood a figure, well known to the juniors, though they had never seen the man till a few days ago. “Crocker!” exclaimed Bob Cherry. “That jolly old boy!” said Nugent “What the thump does he want here?” grunted Johnny Bull. “Like his cheek to butt in!” “And what is he blinking at?” asked Harry Wharton, staring at the man in the gateway. Randolph Crocker, once of the Sixth Form at Greyfriars, expelled long years ago, was not a welcome visitor at the school. He had, in fact, been chucked out when he had blown in. It was rumoured that he had asked his old headmaster to give him a job; but as that headmaster had expelled him long ago for stealing, he had probably not expected to get it. Since then Randolph Crocker had located himself at the biker’s hut on the Abbot’s Spinney, within sight of the school, for no reason that could be discovered except to cause annoyance to his old headmaster. Greyfriars fellows had hardly expected to see him at the school again, but there he was. But it was not so much his presence, as his peculiar actions, that caused many eyes to turn on him in surprise. Randolph Crocker was standing with his head thrown back, looking upward— gazing, it seemed, at some object high on the roof of the school buildings. Some of the juniors looked up; but, being nearer the buildings than the man at the gateway, they could see nothing out of the common. Crocker apparently could. He was gazing at some object on the high roof fixedly, in amazement mingled with amusement. “Something’s up!” remarked Bob Cherry. “What the dick-ens can he have spotted up there?” “Goodness knows!” said Harry Wharton, puzzled. “Let’s see.” The Famous Five cut down to the gates. A good many other fellows followed them, all curious to see what it was that had fixed Crocker’s attention. “Oh gad!” exclaimed Crocker. He lowered his gaze and stared at the juniors. “Is this a new game?” “Oh, look!” roared Bob Cherry. “Great pip!” “Who—” “Smithy!” yelled Bob. “Oh scissors!” The gathering crowd could now see the object at which Crocker had been staring. High up on the ancient red roofs of Greyfriars there were innumerable chimneys. From many of them smoke ascended. But from one of them—the one on which Randolph Crocker’s eyes had been fixed—emerged something much more remarkable than smoke. It was a head and shoulders that emerged! There was somebody in the chimney!” He was black with soot. Soot masked his face and smothered his hair and his clothes. But he was, obviously, a schoolboy—a junior; and many of the fellows knew which chimney that one was—the chimney of the punishment-room. They knew now what had become of the Bounder! They knew where Herbert Vernon-Smith was! There he was— sticking out of the summit of the chimney “Smithy!” “Must be Smithy!” “Oh crumbs!” “I say, you fellows, he’s climbed up the chimney in punny!” “Ha, ha, ha!” “Good old Smithy!” chortled Skinner. “Ain’t he a card!” “The cardfulness is terrific!” chortled Hurree Jamset Ram Singh. “It is the esteemed and ridiculous Smithy!” A sooty hand was waved from the chimney. Under the soot on his face, the Bounder was grinning. Whether these extraordinary antics were likely to improve his prospects or not, the Bounder was enjoying the excitement. He liked to make fellows stare and wonder at his nerve. He had made them stare now—there was no doubt about that. “Is—is—is that Smithy?” gasped Redwing in dismay. Redwing had counselled his chum to “stick it out,’ if he could, till his father came. But he certainly had not envisaged any such dodge as this. “Jolly old Smithy!” said Bolsover major. “They haven’t turfed him out yet!” Ha, ha, ha!” “He will want a wash before he goes!” grinned Skinner. “He’s as black as jolly old Loder’s eyes!” “Ha, ha, ha!” More and more fellows gathered as the news spread. Hundreds of eyes stared up at the head and shoulders emerging from the high chimney. Herbert Vernon-Smith was the cynosure of all eyes. Fellows stared, and chuckled. “But what’s this game?” asked Mr. Crocker. The old boy of Greyfriars seemed interested and entertained. “Who’s that kid?” “Vernon-Smith of our Form.” answered Bob Cherry. “He’s giving the beaks a run for their money before they turf him out.” “Turf him out?” repeated Crocker. “He, he, he!” cachinnated Bunter. “He’s going to be sacked. same as you were! He, he he!” “Not for the same reason.” said Harry Wharton hastily. All the fellows knew why Sportsman Crocker had been sackcd long years ago. He had been a bad hat at Greyfriars; and Smithy, too, was rather a bad hat. But Crocker had been expelled for pinching; and Smithy, with all his faults, would have cut his hand off sooner than that. Randolph Crocker laughed. No sense of shame seemed to trouble that old boy who had been kicked out of his school for dishonesty. Contempt, according to the proverb, will pierce even the shell of the tortoise. But Sportsman Crocker seemed to be thicker. skinned than a tortoise. “What has he done?” he asked. “Punched a prefect.” said Bob. “Sacking him for that?” yawned Crocker. ‘What a trifle!” “Well, he punched him rather hard.” said Bob. “You see, Loder of the Sixth caught him in the Head’s study last night and grabbed him, and Smithy hit out—” “What?” Randolph Crocker started—indeed, he jumped. He stared blankly at Bob. “Last night?” he repeated. “Yes.” “In the Head s study? “Oh gad!” Crocker whistled, and stared up again at the junior in the chimney. “That kid—— Oh gad!” And he’s sacked for it? Hard luck!” “A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind!” murmured Skinner; and some of the juniors laughed. Perhaps Crocker, who had been expelled himself, felt a spot of sympathy for a schoolboy facing the same fate. Anyhow, it was clear that he seemed to have had a shock. “I suppose they’re sure he did it?” asked Crocker. “Was he caught out of his dormitory?” “That’s it.” “Young ass! What was he out of his dormitory for !” “He was after that prefect, and that prefect was after him! I don’t think Smithy meant to punch Loder, but he did!” “He never meant anything of the kind!” exclaimed Redwing sharply. “He was going to mop a can of ink over him. And I know he never touched Loder, either. He’s said he never went near the Head’s study last night: he gave it up when there was an alarm. He’s said so.” “Oh, yes! He’s said so.” agreed Bob. “And it’s true!”” snapped Redwing. “Somebody else was in the Head’s study—I don’t know who, but I know that.” “Oh! You don’t know who?” asked Randolph Crocker, his eyes turning very curiously on Redwing’s flushed face. “No; but I know somebody was.” said Redwing. “I know Smithy never struck Loder that blow. I know he couldn’t have done it,” “Hallo, hallo, hallo! Smithy calling!” exclaimed Bob Cherry; and all eyes turned again on the Bounder. He was waving his hand, and shouting but the distance was great, and the words could not be caught. Then he shouted again, and the words floated down: “He’s coming “Who’s coming?” asked Bob. “Smithy can see the road from up there; he can see somebody coming, I suppose. But who—” Redwing’s face lighted up. “His father!” he breathed. “Oh!” exclaimed Harry Wharton. “Does Smithy expect—” “That’s why he’s doing this. I got word to him that I’d wired his father, and I knew Mr. Vernon-Smith would come. Smithy can see the car from up there, I suppose.” “I say, you fellows, is the old Obadiah coming to see the young Obadiah sacked?” grinned Billy Bunter. He, he, he!” “Kick him!” “Ow! Wow! Stoppit! Ow!” yelled Bunter. “Oh, my hat!” exclaimed Skinner. “Is Smithy’s pater coming? Is that what he’s watching for up there? Sitting on the chimney, watching for pa—” “Ha, ha, ha!” “Watching for pa—waiting for pa!” sang Skinner. “Sitting on the chimney, watching for pa!” “Ha, ha, ha!” “Here comes Quelch!” said Hazeldene. Mr. Quelch—newly cleaned from soot —came hurrying down to the gates. His gimlet eyes gleamed at Randolph Crocker. “Go!” he snapped. “Boys, you are forbidden to hold any communication with that man, as you know very well! You—” Quelch broke off as he discerned the figure at the chimney-top. His gimlet eyes almost started from his face as he stared up at the Bounder.

The Bounder waved a hand to him. Crocker, grinning, strolled away. A moment later there was a honking from a car turning in at the gateway. Redwing looked, with a bright face, at the plump and portly gentleman who sat therein. Mr. Vernon-Smith had arrived, and the Bounder was still at Greyfriars. Quelch stared at the millionaire, with very different fcelings. He compressed his lips hard. Mr. Vernon-Smith did not glance at either of them; he sat, with a grimly frowning brow, as the big car rolled on up the drive to the House. And the sooty Bounder, with a last wave of the hand, disappeared from the chimney. His father was on the spot, and Smithy was longer, as Skinner expressed it, “watching for pa.”

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER.

“What Have You Done?”

DR. LOCKE bowed courteously to the portly City gentleman who was shown into his study. His face was a little set, and, courteous as he was, he could not look as if he was glad to see Mr. Samuel Vernon-Smith. But Mr. Vernon-Smith did not seem to want a warm welcome; he did not seem to want a welcome at all. His face was grimmer than the Head’s. A sudden call away from important affairs in the City, a drive rather like a race in a powerful car, and angry anxiety on account of his son, had not put the millionaire in a good temper. He was in a state of deep wrath, which he did his best to suppress, but which he did not wholly succeed in suppressing. Mr. Quelch followed him into the study. His face was almost pale with annoyance. Loder of the Sixth was no longer there; the Head had dismissed him during that long wait for the culprit who did not arrive. But Loder was coming. From his study be had seen Mr. Vernon-Smith’s arrival, and he did not need telling with what views the millionaire was there. And the bare thought of Vernon-Smith escaping the consequences of what he had done was fearfully exasperating to Gerald Loder. “Dr. Locke!” Mr. Vernon-Smith did not waste a breath or a second in formal greeting “I am here concerning my son. I received a telegram early this morning from a schoolboy friend of his—” “Redwing had no right whatever to dispatch such a telegram!” broke in Mr. Quelch. “It was done without his headmaster’s knowledge or my knowledge—” Mr. Vernon-Smith stared at him. “I am glad that the boy let me know!” he barked. “Was it the intention to send my son from this school without apprising me?” “You would have been apprised, sir, by the letter I intended to send with him, when he was sent home in charge of a Sixth Form prefect!” said Dr. Locke. “I regret very much that you should have had the inconvenience and the pain of coming here on such an occasion—” Redwing’s telegram informed me that my son was in bad trouble here. It was immediately followed by one from you, Mr. Quelch, informing me that my on was returning home at once—” “Quite so, sir!” I dispatched that telegram, in consequence of the one Redwing had sent, in the hope of preventing this unnecessary call—” “Not unnecessary at all, sir!” barked Mr. Vernon Smith. “I am here! Where is my son? Am I to understand that he is already sent away?” “Certainly, he would have bepn sent away before this,” said Dr. Locke, “but, owing to—to—” “Your son, sir, was locked in the punishment-room until the time came to deal with him!” said Mr. Quelch, taking up the tale. “He had the audacity—the effrontery—to secure the door within, and could not be reached—” “Good gad!” “The door, sir,” said Mr. Quelch, in a deep voice, “had to be broken in! You will hardly believe that your son then climbed the chimney——” “The chimney!” ejaculated Mr. Vernon-Smith. “And remained at the sunmit, sir—” “Good gad! I—I saw someone as I arrived—I supposed that it was a chimney-sweep—at a chimney—Good gad!” “It was your son, sir!” said Mr. Quelch bitterly. “He has now descended, and is, I believe, changing his clothes after that exploit. The state he was in—” “His motive in so acting is inexplicable!” said Dr. Locke. “Such audacity—such defiance of authority—” Mr. Vernon Smith grunted. “Whatever his motive, sir, and whatever his action, it is not for that, I presume, that my son is expelled from Greyfriars. I presume that be was condemned before he was placed in the punishment-room, and his actions there, therefore, do not affect the issue.” “Nevertheless—” said the Head.

“Let me know at once, sir, for what reason my son is expelled!” said Mr. Vernon-Smith. “This is not a light matter to me, Herbert is my only son. He will some day fill a great place in the world. If it is clearly demonstrated that he had deserved this, I have nothing to say—I shall know how to deal with him. But what is his offence?” A face adorned with two black eyes appeared in the doorway. Loder of the Sixth had arrived, as if in time to answer the millionaire’s question. Mr. Vernon-Smith started as he saw him. Loder’s aspect was, undoubtedly, rather startling. “Come in, Loder,” said Dr. Locke. “I was about to send for you! Look at this Sixth Form boy, Mr. Vernon-Smith! That is what your son has done!” “Good gad!”

“Any boy in this school who raised his hand to a Sixth Form prefect, entrusted by me with authority, would be expelled!” said Dr. Locke. “Vernon-Smith has not only struck this Prefect of the Sixth Form, but has inflicted, as you see, a brutal disfigurement. Are you satisfied?” Mr. Vernon-Smith stood looking at Loder. Loder blinked at him with his bruised and battered eyes. The millionaire breathed hard. Obviously, the boy who had done this, could not have been allowed to remain in any school. “My son did that?” he asked at last. “He did, sir,” said Dr. Locke quietly, “and, I may add, he has not even the excuse, such as it might be, of provocation. Loder, at the time, doing his bounden duty as a prefect.” Mr. Vernon-Smith sank into a chair. The truculence was gone from his manner. He had an overwhelmed look. “Herbert did that!” he said. “My son did that!” And that is why—” “I regret very much, sir, that you should have been brought here and given unnecessary pain by this interview,” said Dr. Locke. “The boy Redwing has been very much to blame.” “I cannot understand his motive in calling me in, if my son has done this.” said Mr. Vernon-Smith. “I am aware that he is my son’s friend—and he has been a good friend to Herbert —but he must know that there is no hope, in such a case.” He stared at the black-eyed prefect. “You say that this senior boy, Loder, was doing his duty as a prefect when my son struck him and inflicted such an injury. I am entitled to know precisely what occurred. Under what circumstances—” “Yesterday,” said Dr. Locke, “the key of this study was abstracted by some boy who could not be found. From some talk among the juniors, Loder had reason to suspect that it had been taken by Vernon-Smith for the purpose of breaking out at night by way of the study window—” the “I had no doubt of it, sir,” said Loder, “and I thought it my duty to remain up and ascertain—” “That night,” resumed the Head, “I locked the study with another key. From what Loder has since reported, he remained up, with Walker, another prefect, to ascertain. whether anyone attempted to pass through the study. They heard the study door unlocked and someone enter—and Walker then proceeded to the Remove dormitory, where he found that your son was missing.” The Head paused a moment. “Loder came to this study to investigate.” he went on. “The boy who had entered had not gone out by the window —he was, for some reason, lingering in the study with a flashlamp. By its light he saw Loder and attempted to escape—and Loder seized him in the doorway.” “And then—” “Then, sir, in escaping, he struck Loder a blow in the face—so terrible a blow that you see the result. Loder was left stunned—” “Stunned?” gasped Mr. Vernon-Smith. “Actually stunned, and he remained unconscious for several minutes. When he was found by Mr. Quelch and Walker, he had to be carried to his room.” “Good heavens!” “In the meantime, your son had returned to his dormitory, and Mr. Quelch went there for him, and he was taken to the punishment-room, where he has since remained. You are now, sir, in possession of the facts, and I only regret that you should have been given the trouble of coming to Greyfriars to hear them.” There was a silence. It was broken by a footstep in the passage. All eyes turned on the doorway as Herbert Vernon-Smith appeared there. The Bounder had cleaned off the soot and changed but there were still some signs of it lingering about him. He stepped quietly into the study. “1 am sorry, sir!” He addressed the Head respectfully. “Sorry I have kept you waiting, sir but now my father is here—” “Herbert,” muttered Mr. Vernon-Smith, “what have you done? I came here in the hope that it was some matter that might be arranged—that your headmaster might make some concession. But—you foolish boy—what have you done?’’ “Nothing, father!” said the Bounder firmly, “I never touched Loder! I haven’t the faintest idea who knocked him out—but I know I never did!”

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER.

Was It Smithy?

MR. VERNON-SMITH sat staring at his son blankly. Dr. Locke knitted his brows. Mr. Quelch set his lips. Loder of the Sixth stared at the junior with a contemptuous sneer. In those three minds there was no doubt. But Mr. Vernon-Smith, after the first moment of surprise, caught at his son’s words like a man catching at straws. The millionaire was quick on the uptake. His son’s denial meant that there was, and must be, an element of doubt in the matter. “You did not touch Loder, Herbert?” repeated the millionaire. “You say that you did not touch Loder?” “I never saw him or went near him last night, father. This is the first time I have seen him, or been near him, since yesterday afternoon.” said the Bounder steadily. “I’ve said so— and Redwing, at least, believes me.” “This boy’s prevarications—” said Mr. QuoIch. Vernon-Smith’s eyes gleamed for a moment. But his manner was quite respectful as he turned to his Form- master. There was too much at stake for Smithy to think of giving way to his temper. “Will you, sir, and the head, give me a hearing?” hk asked quietly. “A fellow who is going to be expelled has a right to be heard.” “Most certainly!” exclaimed Mr. Vernon-Smith. “Dr. Locke, I concluded from what you said that the matter was beyond doubt—” “It is beyond doubt!” said Dr. Locke coldly. “Let my son speak! Herbert, I am told that you were missing from your dormitory last night. What have you to say to that?” “That is correct, father.” “Why did you leave your dormitory at a late hour of the night, then?” asked the millionaire. Smithy hesitated, but only a second. It was clear to him that his only chance lay in making a clean breast of the whole matter. “I don’t deny that I’ve broken rules.” he said. “I expected a flogging if I was found out. But I’ve done nothing to be expelled for. I intended to tell my headmaster everything. I left my dormitory last night for a jape—I mean a rag—on Loder.” “What! You admit—” “I admit that I meant to rag Loder.” said Vernon-Smith, a gleam in his eyes. “I knew he was prowling, and I was going to mop a can of ink over his head as a lesson not to spy on fellows” Loder’s black eyes glittered. “That statement is false, sir!” he said. “When Vernon-Smith crept into this study last night he certainly did not know that I was on the watch down the passage with Walker.” “If it had been me I should have known,” said Vernon-Smith composedly. “Every fellow in the Remove, sir, knows that I came down to rag Loder. My friend Redwing got out of bed and tried to stop me. Wharton got up, too. Half the Form was awake, and they all knew I was coming down after Loder.” There was a brief silence. “Loder,” said the Head, “I understood from you that the boy who entered this study in the dark was unaware that you were watching, and that you took him by surprise.” “That is certainly the case, sir.” “Yet Vernon-Smith declares that he knew that you were on the watch.” “He is speaking untruthfully, sir.” “Every man in the Remove will back up what I say, sir,” said Vernon-Smith. “They all know what I knew, and they know how I know.” “And how did you know?” asked Mr. Quelch, breaking another silence. “I intend to explain the whole thing, sir. Loder suspected me because he heard me talking to some fellows yesterday. I spoke in his hearing on purpose to pull his leg—” “To mislead him, do you mean?” asked Dr. Locke coldly. “Yes, sir. You remember, sir, that you had put a notice up on the board putting the Abbot’s Spinney out of bounds because that man Crocker has set up there. I let Loder hear me say something about sneaking a downstairs key and getting out to go and see the man. I never meant a word of it; it was only for Loder to hear.” “Did you take the key of my study?” rapped the Head grimly. “Do you admit that, or do you not?” “I do, sir. Here it is.” Smithy drew a key from his pocket and laid it on the headmaster’s writing-table. “I took the key, sir, for no reason, except to make Loder take what I had said seriously. I never intended to use it, and never did use it. I never came near this study at all.” “The door was left locked” said the Head icily. “It was unlocked by the boy who entered, and a key must have been used.” “I cannot understand that, sir. I know nothing whatever about it,” said the Bounder firmly. “I knew—at least I felt certain—that Loder would be on the prowl—” “What?” “I—I mean, on the watch, sir—” “You had better say what you nean, Vernon-Smith!” “Yes, sir. I was certain that Loder would be on the watch, believing that I meant to break out through this study. I meant to catch him in the dark and mop—I mean, throw a can of ink over him. I own up to that. When I went down from the dormitory I went to my study in the Remove to fetch the can of ink. I was coming away with it when I saw the lights go on, on the dormitory landing. I knew from that that the beaks—I mean, masters or prefects were up, and that it was no good thinking of carrying on.” Mr. Vernon-Smith did not speak; he listened, with his eyes keenly on his son’s face. “After that,” continued the Bounder quietly, “I waited for a time, hoping that the light would go off. I went back to my dormitory at last. Up to then I did not know that I had been missed; but when I got back I found the door open and the light on and everybody awake, and the fellows told ne that Walker of the Sixth had brought Mr. Quelch there, so I was found out.” “1s that all?” “That is all, sir. Until Mr. Quelch came up again and accused me of having knocked Loder out I never knew that Loder had been touched at all.” Silence followed. The Bounder’s quiet and steady explanation had made an impression— especially upon his father. That he had been guilty of wild and hot-headed recklessness was clear, on his own admission: but his father, at least, believed that there was nothing more. “You say that you did not come to this study at all?” asked Mr. Quelch. “I never even came down the lower staircase, sir.” “Then who,” said Mr. Quelch grimly, “was the boy who entered the study, using a key?” “I don’t know, sir. How could I know? I only know that it was not I,” answered Vernon-Smith steadily. “But if Loder says that the fellow did not know that he was on the watch it proves that it was not I; every man in the Remove knows that I knew he was up, and that that was why I came down.” Mr. Vernon-Smith broke in. “Am I to understand,” he said, that Loder did not see and could not identify the boy who struck him?” “I know that it was Vernon Smith,” answered Loder. “Did you see him!” “I‘m not a cat, to see in the dark.” answered Loder sullenly. Mr. Vernon-Smith’s eyes glinted. “I demand a plain answer” he said “Did you see who struck you—yes or no?” “No!” grunted Loder. The millionaire drew a long, long breath of relief. He turned quietly to the headmaster. “Dr. Locke, I had understood before I saw my son that the matter was beyond doubt; that it was known as a fact that Herbert had done this. It appears now that the blow was struck in the dark, and that Loder knows absolutely nothing on the subject.” “I know that it was Vernon-Smith.” repeated Loder. “You know nothing of the kind, and I will not allow you to say so!” exclaimed Mr. Vernon-Smith. “Your belief that it wits my son who entered the study in the dark is not evidence, and has nothing to do with the matter. You did not see him, and your belief on the subject is worth nothing. Dr. Locke, did anyone else see my son outside his dormitory?” “He was not seen by anyone.” said the, Head. “He was missing from his dormitory at the time of the attack on Loder, and that is conclusive!’ “It is very far from conclusive.” said Mr. Vernon-Smith grimly. “Some other boy may have been out of his dormitory at the same time. It is, indeed, certain that some other boy was, if my son’s statement is correct.” “Your son’s statement is not correct, sir.” said Dr. Locke dryly. “My son, sir, had been foolish, reckless, insubordinate, and deserves punishment. But, I believe every word he has said.” “I do not share your belief, sir.” said the Head in the same dry tone. “His schoolfellows sir, may—indeed, will—bear out his statement that he was aware that Loder was up and on this spot.” “Possibly! Loder may be mistaken on that point. Your son, sir, admits that he came down to make some attack on Loder. He denies having made an attack—but an attack was made.” “By some other hand, sir, if my son was not here.” “Nothing could be more conclusive, sir, than the evidence on that point.” said Dr. Locke. “Vernon-Smith was in possession of the key to this study. The door was opened with a key. He was missing from his dormitory at the time. No reasonable mind could require more conclusive evidence.” Mr. Vernon-Smith rose from his chair, crossed to the door, and intently examined the lock thereon; then he turned to the Head. “This is far from an uncommon kind of lock, sir.” he said. “ it is quite probable that a key might be found to open it.” The Head made no reply to that. That suggestion did not weigh with him in the least. Mr. Quelch spoke quietly. “Possibly such a key may exist, Mr. Vernon-Smith. But it is known that a key was in your son’s posssion.” Mr. Vernon-Smith gave him a look; then he turned to Loder and fixed a grim, searching stare on his bruised face. Again he turned to the Head. “You tell me, sir, that this senior boy, almost a young man, was stunned by a blow given him by the person he seized in this study.” “Precisely so; he was unconscious for many minutes.” “Is it credible, sir, that such a blow could be struck by a junior schoolboy? It seems more like a knockout blow by a professional boxer.” “That is true, certainly.” said Dr. Locke. “The boy, I suppose, was in a state of desperation at the moment, and it lent force to his blow. There is no doubt in my mind that Vernon-Smith struck it.” “There is no doubt in my mind, sir— or, rather, the certainty that he did not. My son, on his own confession, is is deserving of severe punishment. But I am quite convinced that he never did this. Definitely, sir!” The Bounder breathed hard. His father, at least, was on his side. There was, at least, one to stand by; Redwing had done that much for him. It seemed to him, too, that some flicker of doubt was creeping into Mr. Quelch’s face. It was only a flicker; but, at all events, his Form-master’s firm belief had been slightly shaken. “This matter, sir,” went on Mr. Vernon-Smith, “is one for consultation and discussion.” “Really, sir —” “If I believed, sir, that my son had done this, I would take him away with me immediately, and what he would receive from me would be more severe than any meted out by you!” said Mr. Vernon-Smith grimly. “But I do not believe it—and you, sir, must desire as earnestly as I do that no injustice should be done. Send these boys away, sir, and let us consider!” The Head compressed his lips. But he made a sign to Loder and Vernon-Smith to leave the study, and the door closed on them.

THE NINTH CHAPTER.

A Mystery!

“I SAY, you fellows, what do you think?” Eager eyes turned on Billy Bunter. Bunter, as a rule, did not find eager listeners. But if the fat Owl had any news, everybody wanted to hear it now. Excitement, and keen curiosity reigned in the Remove. What had happened—what was going to happen— nobody knew. But it was all fearfully thrilling Third school was over. During third school, Mr. Vernon-Smith car had been heard to drive away. The millionaire was gone, but whether the millionaire’s son was gone with him or not, nobody knew. If he was still at the school he was not to be seen. That he had been sacked, and that he had gone with his father, seemed fairly certain. Many fellows hoped that he hadn’t—Redwing most earnestly of all. Nobody knew for certain—and everybody wanted to know. So when Billy Bunter rolled up to a group in the quad just before dinner, all eyes and ears were alert. Bunter was the- man to get the news, if there was any going, and for once everybody hung on the words of the fat Owl of the Remove. “Heard anything?” asked Tom Redwing eagerly. Bunter grinned. “Yes, rather!” he answered. “What’s the news, Bunter?” asked a dozen voices. “I’ve just heard!” said the fat Owl, with a cheery grin of satisfaction on his plump face. “I thought I’d come and tell you fellows. I’ve just heard it from Trotter. In fact, I asked him about it!” “And what—” “Get it out!” “Cough it up!” “Throw it off your chest!” “Buck up!” “There’s steak-and-kidney pie for dinner!” announced Bunter triumphantly. “What!” yelled the juniors. “Steak-and-kidney pie!” declared Bunter. “Ripping, ain’t it? As we had steak-and-kidney pie on Monday, I hardly thought we should get it again on Thursday! But it’s all right ! Trotter told me!” The juniors gazed at Bunter. He grinned at them complacently. This, apparently, was Bunter’s news! He was not thinking about Smithy—the topic that thrilled the rest of the Remove from end to end! He was thinking about dinner! “It’s true, you fellows!” assured Bunter. “Trotter knows, of course!” “You—you—you pie-faced pernicious porpoise!” gasped Bob Cherry. “Have you come to tell us about dinner?” “Eh? Yes! I thought you fellows would like to know!” said Bunter, blinking at him “Steak-and-kidney pie—” “You flabby, frumptious freak—” “Oh, really, Wharton—” “Do you know anything about Smithy?” asked Bob. “Eh? Smithy! No! I expect he’s gone by this time!” answered Bunter, who had apparently forgotten the Bounders existence in the thrilling news of steak-and-kidney pie for dinner. “Poor old Smithy!” added Bunter compassionately. ‘Pity he couldn’t stay for dinner, as it’s steak-and-kidney pie!” “You blithering Owl!” “Oh, really, Bull—” “Boot him!” hissed Peter Todd. “Yarooh!” roared Bunter, in anguish and indignation, as severaI fellows did as Toddy suggested on the spot. “Why, you beasts, I thought you’d like to know—we don’t often get steak-and- kidney pie twice in the week—yaroop!” Billy Bunter retired hastily from the spot. His news—really thrilling news, from Bunter’s point of view—had been most ungratefully received. Bunter really wished that he hadn’t taken the trouble to tell those ungrateful beasts about the treat in store. “What on earth leave they done with Smithy?” asked Bob. “I suppose he must be gone—but—” “I’m going to ask Quelch.” said Tom Redwing ‘‘The old bean’s still with the Head!” We shall see him at dinner, I suppose!” Redwing’s face was deeply clouded and troubled. He had banked on Smithy’s father to pull him through, somehow: it had been, at any rate, the Bounder’s only chance of help. If that had failed, the Bounder of Greyfriars was done for at the school. But had it failed? The dinner-bell rang, and the Greyfriars fellows went in—one fat face in their ranks bright with happy anticipation of steak-and-kidney pie! But Billy Bunter was the only fellow in the Remove deeply interested in that subject, entrancing as it was. Every other fellow was thinking of Smithy. Mr. Quelch came in as usual to take his place at the head of the Remove. All eyes fixed on him. His expression was grim. Grim as he looked, Tom Redwing ventured to address him. “If you please, sir—” said Tom, in rather a faltering voice. “What?” snapped Mr. Quelch. “Will you tell us whether Smithy—I mean Vernon-Smith—has left, sir?” “Vernon-Smith has not yet left, Redwing.” answered Mr. Quelch, with another snap. “Oh!” Redwing’s clouded face cleared, rather like the sun coming out on a cloudy day. “Thank you, sir!” Mr. Quelch glanced at him—and his grim face relaxed a trifle. “The matter is not yet finally decided.” he said. “Say no more, Redwing.” Tom sat down. His face was brighter and his heart lighter. Smithy had not gone with his father! That meant, and could only mean, that he still had a chance!” Tom was deeply glad that he had got that telegram off, and that he had warned his chum to “stick it out” till his father came. Smithy was still, at any rate, at Greyfriars, though not in public view. Wherever he was, he did not appear at dinner. Neither was he seen in the quad after dinner. The juniors wondered whether he was in the punishment-room. Sounds of repairing had been heard from that direction. Considerable repairs were required if the room was to be used again for a prisoner. When the bell rang for class again, the Remove trooped off to their Form-room, wondering whether Smithy was going to turn up for class. He did not turn up! His place in the Remove Form-room remained vacant; and, as Mr. Quelch made no remark on the subject, it was evident that he did not expect Smithy there. “Must be in punny!” said Bob Cherry, when the Remove came out. “Nowhere else he can be that 1 know of.” “They can’t pack him in punny for ever!” said Harry Wharton. “Blessed if I can make out whether they’re letting him off or not!” “They can’t let him off, after what he did to Loder! Dash it all, you can’t black a prefect’s eyes—even Loder’s!” “Well, if he isn’t sacked, and isn’t let off, what the dickens are they going to do with him?” asked Johnny Bull. “It’s a giddy mystery!” It was quite a mystery and a puzzle to the Remove. At tea-time, Vernon-Smith was not seen in the Remove studies. Obviously he was not allowed to rejoin or mingle with his Form. He did not appear in the Rag after tea, and he did not appear when the Remove went up to prep. But he was still at Greyfriars— that, at least, was certain. What it all meant, and how it was going to end, the Remove fellows could only wonder—and Skinner opined that the Bounder’s luck, which had always been phenomenal, was going to see him through after all. And a good many fellows hoped that Skinner was right!” — —

THE TENTH CHAPTER.

A Punch For Prout!

“SCANDALOUS!” said Mr. Prout. “Shocking!” agreed Mr. Hacker. “Outrageous!” continued Prout. “Disgraceful!” said Mr. Hacker. Harry Wharton & Co., as they heard that exchange of opinions between the master of the Fifth and the master of the Shell, exchanged a grin. It was the following day, after cIass, and the Famous Five of the Remove, taking a little walk abroad, came on Prout and Hacker, doing the same. The two beaks stopped at the corner of Friardale Lane, by the fence that in closed Abbot’s Spinney. That was the spot where Sportsman Crocker, once of the Greyfriars Sixth, had taken up his quarters. Prout and Hacker stood looking up at a board on the fence, which gave the information, to all who might or might not be concerned, that R. Crocker, formerly of Greyfriars School, was prepared to sole and heel boots and shoes, with promptness and despatch. Prout glared at that board! Hacker frowned at it! And the Famous Five smiled. The surprising proceedings of R. Crocker seemed rather a lark to many of the Greyfriars juniors. But the masters had no use for such larks. What the Head thought about it, he had not stated. But the members of his staff discussed the matter at great length in Common-room, expressing the profoundest disapproval of R. Crocker and his proceedings. “Boots and shoes!” said Mr. Prout, with a snort. “Soled and heeled!” said Mr. Hacker, with a sniff. “The impudent knave should be warned off !” said the Fifth Form master. “He should be made to go.” “It appears that he has hired this place from the estate agent in Courtfield, and cannot be made to go!” answered Mr. Hacker, shaking his head. “Soled and heeled!” said Mr. Prout. “Such effrontery!” said Mr. Hacker. A figure in a leather apron, overalls, and an old hat, appeared in the doorway of the hiker’s hut, which stood on the site of the Abbot’s Cell of ancient times. It was the cheery Mr. Crocker. Prout turned a thunderous frown on him. Hacker gave him a cold glance of contemptuous disdain. Crocker came lounging down to the gate. He had a boot in one hand—as if he had been at his work of cobbling. That boot had been seen in his hand before. It did not seem to have progressed a lot since Mr. Crocker had started work on it! Nobody, in fact, believed that Randolph Crocker did any cobbling at all. He had camped in the Abbot’s Spinney, and set up his sign there, simply to make himself obnoxious, so far as anyone could see. “Hold on, you men!” murmured Bob Cherry. “Let’s watch this!” “Mustn’t loiter!” grinned Nugent. “Head’s notice—nobody to loiter in this spot! Crocker’s barred.” “Hold on while I tie a shoe-lace, then!” said Bob. “How long will that take, fathead?” “Just as long as Prout sticks there! He looks as if he’s going to explode. Old Pompous is no end entertaining when he blows off steam.” And the chums of the Remove held on. They were rather interested in Prout’s interview with that obnoxious old boy of Greyfriars, cheerily wondering whether there was going to be a row Crocker had passed through Prout’s Form, in ancient days at Greyfriars, when Prout was a much younger man than he was now; but it was clear that Prout had no pleasant or affectionate remembrance of him. “Good aftarnoon, gents!” said R. Crocker cheerily, as he came down to the gate in the fence. ‘Soled or heeled, sir ?” Hacker, the Acid Drop, only sneered at this impertinence. But Prout, the portly and pompous, purpled. “How dare you address me?” he snorted. “You haven’t brought boots or shoes to be repaired, sir?’ asked Randolph Crocker. “You are perfectly well aware that I have not!” boomed Prout. “Just dropped in to speak a friendly word to an old boy!” asked Crocker, still cheery and genial. “Glad to see you, sir! Come in and sit down! Trade isn’t brisk yet—there don’t seem to be a lot of boots and shoes want soling and heeling in this quarter. Perhaps you could put in a word for me at the school, Mr. Prout, and get me some custom.” “Upon my word!” hooted Prout. “Do come in!” urged Crocker hospitably. “A chat over old times would be so pleasant. Remember the time when you found soot in your Sunday hat, Prout? Did you ever guess I dd it?” “1 believe you, sir, to be capable of that, or any other iniquity!” boomed Mr. Prout. “What are you doing here? Do not pretend to me that you are mending boots and shoes. You were always incorrigibly lazy and idle and shiftless “How well you remember me!” grinned Crocker. “And I do not believe you have changed!” boomed Prout. Neither have you, old thing!” said the cheery Crocker. “Same old pompous ass!” “What?” gasped Mr. Pront. “Only you’re fatter!” said Crocker. “I remember that you could see your knees when I was at Greyfriars! How many years is it since you have seen them, oId fat porpoise?” Pront gurgled. “He’s going to punch him!” breathed Bob Cherry, in intense excitement. “Watch!” “Oh , my hat!” “Mr. Prout—!” exclaimed Hacker. Prout did not heed him. Prout was purple with wrath. Crocker’s impudent, grinning face was quite close to him. The temptation to hit it seemed too strong for Prout to resist. Prout’s plump fist flashed out, as if of its own volition, Biff!”

“Gottim!”gasped Bob. “Oh crikey!” Randolph Crocker gave a howl as he got the biff! It seemed to surprise him. He tottered for a moment, spluttering. The portly master of the Fifth, towering with wrath, glared at him. “That for your impertinence!” he boomed. “And if you dare to repeat it, I warn you that I will—Whooo-hooop!” Crocker’s fist shot out! Prout, big and heavy as he was, was lifted almost off his feet by a punch that landed on his portly chest. He spun, and crashed, and landed on the county of Kent, with a concussion that almost shook that county. “Oh crumbs!” gasped the Famous Five together.

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER.

Muddy!

“Oooooooooh!” came in a gurgle from Mr. Prout. He lay on his back, in Friardale Lane, gazing up at the steely wintry sky. He gazed with dizzy eyes. He did not seem quite to know what had happened to him. He lay and gurgled. “Goodness gracious!” gasped Mr. Hacker, staring down at him. “Mr. Prout—” “Ooooooooh!” “My dear Prout—” “Woooooogh!” “How dare you?” exclaimed Hacker. “Ruffian—hooligan—rascal—” The Acid Drop glared at Randolph Crocker. “You want some, my bony friend?” asked the old boy of Greyfriars cooly. “You’ve only got to ask!” He made a forward movement. Mr. Hacker promptly made a backward one. Hacker, it was clear, did not want any. “Stand back!” he gasped. “Hands off, you ruffian! Goodness gracious! You shall be given into custody for this assault! You—you—” “Forget it!” said the Sportsman. “I’ve a good mind to have Prout up for assault and battery! Does he think he can biff my jaw because I was in his Form twenty years ago?” Hacker did not answer that. He stooped over Prout to give him a hand to rise. Crocker grinned had both of them. Prout continued to gurgle. Prout was massive, and he was heavy. It was not easy to heave Prout up. “Lend a hand, you men!” exclaimed Bob Cherry. And the Famous Five ran to render first-aid. Many hands made light work. Mr. Pront was heaved up, and landed on his feet. He stood on them, unsteadily, still gurgling for breath. Probably by that time Prout repented of that hasty biff! Crocker had asked for it, and it had been a satisfaction to deliver it; but the result was simply deplorable for Prout. One punch had knocked him right out—almost as thoroughly as Loder of the Sixth had been knocked out by his assailant in the Head’s study. Leaning heavily on Hacker, who tottered under the strain, Prout gasped and gurgled for breath. “Ooooooogh!” mumbled Prout. “Oooogh! Upon my word! Oooogh! Yoooogh! Pray assist me, Hacker! Ooooooogh!” “Have another, old bean?” grinned Crocker. Bob Cherry glanced round at tha old boy of Greyfriars. “Shut up!” he said curtly. “Hallo! What’s biting you?” asked Crocker, staring at him. “I’ll tell you!” said Bob, his eyes glinting at the grinning Sportsman. “You’re a brute and a hooligan, to hit a man of Prout’s age as hard as that. You ought to be jolly well booted!” Prout, still gurgling, was moving off, leaning on Hacker.Evidently he was not in a state of carrying the matter further. Prout’s spirit was still high; but his scrapping days were long over. He was, in fact, rather badly damaged, and the juniors, who had looked on the affair as a merry jest at first, were now feeling strongly inclined to give Randolph Crocker some of his own gruel, so to speak. Crocker gave Bob a very unpleasant look. He did not seem to like Bob’s plain speaking. “Like to do the booting?” he jeered. “Yes, I’d like to,” retorted Bob, “and if I were anything like your weight, I’d give you what you’ve given Prout, and some over. Prout’s sixty, if he’s a day, and you could push him over with your little finger—and you hit him like a prize-fighter, you brute!” Bob turned away in contempt—and, as he turned, Crocker reached out and nipped an ear between finger and thumb. “Oh!” roared Bob, as his ear was twisted. He spun round and struck out with all his force. Bob had a hefty punch. Crocker, as he received it, let go the ear and staggered back. As he straightened up again, the look on his face was quite alarming. Under the grinning, sardonic good-humour that he affected, there was no doubt that Randolph Crocker, once of Greyfriars, was no more than a ruffian. He was not grinning now. With shut teeth and glinting eyes, he came at Bob—and Johnny Bull thrust out a foot just in time. Crocker went over it, tumbled, and fell on his knees. “Collar him!” shouted Johnny. Before Randolph Crocker could pick himself up, the Famous Five fairly hurled themselves upon him. A fellow who fancied that he could pull Remove ears, was a fellow who needed a lesson, in the opinion of the Famous Five; and they were going to gave him one, Crocker went sprawling in the grasp of five pairs of hands. He gave a howl of rage as he sprawled. He was strong, and ho was wiry; and he struggled with savage vigour. But he was grasped on all sides; and Johnny Bull and Harry Wharton clung to his arms, holding them powerless. Had he got a hand free, there was no doubt of what would have happened—and none of the Famous Five wanted to stop such a punch as had landed on Prout. Whoever had stopped it, would probably have looked like Loder of the Sixth afterwards. They gave him no chance of that. Wharton had one arm, and Johnny the other—Bob Cherry and Hurree Jamset Ram Singh took a leg each, and Frank Nugent gripped the back of a collar. Thus held, even the wiry and hefty sportsman was powerless, and he was swept off his feet. “This way!” panted Harry Wharton. Struggling and kicking, yelling at the top of his voice, Randolph Crocker was carried bodily across the lane to the ditch on the other side. “One—two—three—go!” gasped Bob. And, with a swing, the old boy of Greyfriars went hurtling into the middle of the ditch. There was a tremendous splash as he landed there in mud and muddy water, and half-melted snow. He sat in the ditch up to the neck with muddy water flowing round him. He sat and spluttered. “That’s a tip, you cheeky rotter!” gasped Bob. “Like to pull my ear again, you swab?” Crocker struggled and splashed, struggling to his feet. His hard face was livid with rage. “Wait till I get out!” he gasped. He came plunging to the side of the ditch. What he was going to do when he got out, was only too clear. It was only prudent not to let him get out So, as he struggle